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Waking up in the mornin', picking my writing utensil. Pulling out my composition book, my brain trying to settle. Thinking to myself about becomin' a star. I can imagine myself just tryna live large.
Small and innocent I may appear, But when angry, I'm able to strike fear.  Rage isn't a righteous practice, but for me it became a common habit.  I seem to loose all demeanor and control.
Standing at the top of this hill, I sit, stand, and laugh at hell, Thinking, "What a perfect reflection we see of ourselves."   With respect, "I know it may seem cold to say just what I see,
I am not a girl or a woman or a bitch - not a daughter or a lady or a mistress or a maybe - I invite the saints to hate me for my gender's inner glitch - for the figure in my coding 
In the grace of the dawn I rose, With the sun, To read a book of prose. Before the early morning light had gone,
In the grace of the dawn I rose, With the sun, To read a book of prose. Before the early morning light had gone,
I choose to be meIn a world where others disguise who they truly areLiving a facade to hide any imperfections or scarsPressured to live their life just like everyone else
The clouds part to reveal the stars, but the clouds themselves are also beauty; black grey grotesque scowling at earth crying furious but beauty - and the stars are overlooked, shining dully and ignored glitter, for clouds are the beauty expected
Some people say I’m selfless. That I wake up and put myself on the back rack, But it’s definitely not that.   When I wake up I look in the mirror past the dried slobber and nappy dew
I Am A Shooting Star Once You See Me I Amaze You But By Time You See Me, Im Already Gone My Existence Has Already Been No Longer Dead To The Outside, But Alive In Your Mind
Never fail to notice your intuition Enduring life When it becomes chaotic Compelled to make rapid decisions My mind is gifted
To be recognized One must have something to be recognized forAnd I, Well, I have nothingI have the world to walk uponBut it is not mine 
    Recognition is just a word. It is talked about but never heard.
I walk the halls that grow increasingly familiar Yet at the same time, recognition becomes harder These faces? These people? Strangers. As the years go by, the ones I know  Disappear.
(poems go here)RECOGNITION By: Megan Quick I can glide for a time Above my wretched candor And I don’t have to see broken faces Reflected in my own.
Recognition will not be televised, recognition of those every day slaves, those modern slaves, those daily slaves forced to endure the lashing of daily racist slurs and remarks and not utter a sound to uproar against them,
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